Dimiter (20 page)

SANDALLS:
Hold it, please. Sorry. This is one of the things that we want to be absolutely sure of. Okay? Please repeat word for word what she said, would you Sergeant? At least as you
now
recall it.

MERAL:
What she said was, “Does this have anything to do with a murder or something? Some really really serious crime?”

ZUI:
And that’s precisely what’s in your report. Please go on.

MERAL:
I told her yes, and that a serious crime was a possibility,
and then right away she gave me an answer. No, she told me, she’d never seen him. And then something about wanting to meet for a drink or a coffee that night. That’s not in my report.

ZUI:
No it isn’t. Do you socialize with her?

MERAL:
No. I never have. Though she sometimes asks me to meet in that way on some pretext or other.

ZUI:
Did you do so that night?

MERAL:
No, I didn’t. I gave her request no significance.

ZUI:
And so what do you think was going on with her, Sergeant?

MERAL:
I’m not sure. But I suspect that she actually
had
seen Temescu.

ZUI:
Any reason she would lie about that?

MERAL:
Oh, well, she could be one of those people who just doesn’t ever want to be involved.

ZUI:
You think that’s it, then?

MERAL:
Actually, I don’t. Assessing her manner, her behavior—as I said, I do know her a little—my instinct says she might be protecting someone.

ZUI:
Right. Now it’s been mentioned to us that there’s a bit of a lapse in your written report.

MERAL:
Is that so?

SANDALLS:
Wouldn’t someone at the church remember seeing the dead man going into the Tomb? I mean, although it’s not entirely out of the question, it seems whacko to imagine someone carried in a corpse. There must be someone from the church who’s always posted by the entrance to the Tomb. Not so? Someone checking for crazies with a bomb or something and making sure not too many are going in there at once?

MERAL:
Yes, there is such a person. There are three, in fact, working in eight-hour shifts.

SANDALLS:
Don’t they need to be questioned? They can confirm that our man wasn’t carried in there, and they can tell us if he came into the church all alone or with someone else.

MERAL:
You’re entirely correct. But as it happens I’ve already questioned two of them and neither one has any memory of Temescu entering the Tomb. Before drawing a conclusion, I was waiting to interrogate the third one, Tariq Maloof, but he was visiting family in Amman. He’s coming back today and he’ll be on duty tonight, which is when I’m going to question him, and if he saw something meaningful, why, certainly, I’ll give you an immediate further report.

ZUI:
Yes, we’ll want you to refresh us from time to time anyway.

MERAL:
Gladly.

ZUI:
Bill? Charlie? Anything more? Alright, Deborah, that’s it. You can go. And you, too, Sergeant Meral. Thanks so much for your help. And your patience. We’ll be in touch.

MERAL:
One more question, please. May I?

ZUI:
Sure, go ahead.

MERAL:
You said you were looking at “something else”as the cause of Temescu’s death. Something other than the cancer. Can you tell me what that is?

ZUI:
No, not at this time.

MERAL:
You don’t know yet?

ZUI:
We know but we can’t quite believe it. Okay, Debbie, wrap it up for now.

[INTERVIEW ENDS 1106]

O
utside the inner chamber of the Tomb of Christ, quiet voices could be heard from within by the two policemen who were very slowly pacing back and forth in front of it, their heads low and hands clasped behind their backs, their measured footsteps reverberating softly on the diamond-shaped rose and black marble tiles that shimmered with the light from giant candles amid a smell of hot wax and incense and the lingering whispers of a million warm prayers. Leaving his hostel at ten-fifteen so that he wouldn’t interfere with the start of night
services, Meral had walked quickly up a narrow street that once had shuddered with the clang of Roman armor and the terrifying stamp of marching feet. Only the quietest of sounds were to be heard now: the whirring of a turning TV antenna, the quiet rapping of knuckles on corrugated steel as municipal guards checked the shutters of shops, and, as Meral neared the church, the lilting, satisfied atonal singing of a baker who just before dinnertime had given to the poor, as he did each night, by baking their unbaked bread without charge.

“Was he here? Did he come into the Tomb?”

Meral was questioning Tariq, the third and previously unavailable checker of those who would enter the space where they were standing: a quadrangular chamber hewn out of rock and plated in marble. Six feet wide, seven long, and seven high, it was the burial chamber of Christ. The light of candles and forty-three lamps made of gold and silver danced faintly in Tariq’s dark eyes as his fingers cupped his stubbled chin and he studied Temescu’s driver’s license.

He handed it back to Meral.

“Yes, I think he was here. I think I saw him.”

“Was there anyone with him?”

“Yes, I think so. Absolutely. Maybe.”

“Which is it, Tariq?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“There was somebody with him.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“And they were together, you say?”

“Yes, together. I had seen them come in and they were talking. Maybe arguing.”

“Arguing?”

“I think so. Maybe. I’m not sure. There were gestures, the one who was with him always leaning in close to him. Whispering. Excited.”

“And the dead man? The man in the photo?”

“He was calm.”

“Can you describe the other person?”

“Yes. He had a beard.”

“Tariq, look at me. Look me in the eye. How helpful a description is

that in Jerusalem?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I would like a full description.”

“I cannot remember.”

“You wouldn’t know him if you saw him again?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.Very posssibly.”

“Was there anything distinctive about him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tariq, try.”

“Alright, one thing perhaps. He looked sad. I saw him crying.”

”Crying?”

“Yes, a little.”

“And what time was this, Tariq?”

“I don’t know that exactly. But the end of the day. The last people were going into the Tomb.”

“Did they enter the Tomb together?”

“It could be.”

“It could be?”

“I think maybe.”

“And the man with the beard. Did you see him coming out?”

“I don’t know. Someone called me to the entry door.”

“Who?”

“Someone selling falafel.”

Meral watched Tariq leave, and then crouching down to fit through the low arched access to the Tomb, he entered the chamber and then pensively looked down at the burial couch. Roughly two feet high from the floor, its primitive rock had been long ago covered by a mottled pink and ivory marble slab that was silken and slightly warm to the touch from the crowded profusion of candles and lamps overlooking the burial couch, softly flickering sentinels. Meral reimagined Temescu lying there, as he pondered the puzzling documents he had found in the dead man’s apartment. Among them was another postmarked envelope addressed to Temescu in an unknown hand this one, containing a letter that, in spite of the name on the envelope, was written to someone other than Temescu; or so its salutation seemed to indicate. And there were six other puzzling items. Five of them were passports: one Italian, one British, one Swedish, one Cambodian, and one American, all issued in different names, although none in the name of Temescu; and all bore the photo of a man who, while generally resembling Temescu, also differed from the photo on his driver’s license, just as each differed one from the other: length, style, and color of hair, as well as skin and eye color, in particular in the Cambodian passport photo. Even eyebrow thickness and the prominence of cheekbones differed. Beyond that the expression staring out from the photos was so different in each of them that they were able, at least for some moments, to create the impression of a totally separate and distinct personality. Meral found this especially true of the somehow affecting photo on yet a sixth document. It was a faded Albanian identity card of someone named Selca Decani.

Z
ui lifted a dismal glance to Sandalls, who was sitting next to Bell on the camel leather sofa directly across from Zui’s desk.

“And so what was he doing here?” Zui demanded.

Sandalls threw up his hands and shook his head.

“We don’t know.”

“You don’t know? The deadliest assassin in your agency’s history and you’re telling me you haven’t got a clue why he was here?”

“Look, we haven’t been in touch with the guy for years.”

“Oh, please!”

“No, Moshe, really! He dropped out! He disappeared!”

“Come on! Spooks don’t retire. You know that. They just go from cover to cover. He came into the country on a phony passport. And the cowcatcher, Bill? What was
that
? He was planning to go work on a kibbutz? Quit the bullshit. He was here on a mission. Now what was it?”

“Moshe, I swear to you, we didn’t even know he was here!”

“Should I bring out the truth serum candies again? Better watch it. They could ruin your careers. They’re addictive.”